Shadow of the Warrior
by TwisterJester
Summary: A little murder, a little mayhem, a little crossover between the X-Files and Relic Hunter
1. No Rest for the Eerie

452 AD

I've done my homework on this story. The historic references are real; the quoted dates and descriptions, including the Sword of Mars, refer to things that truly happened. I've gleaned information from several sources, most of which you can view on line or at your local library, by looking up the _Huns_ or _Attila the Hun_.

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Summer, 451 AD  
Gaul (modern France)

Blood ran in a river underfoot, with hardly an inch of ground not covered with the dead and injured. Human carnage spread for as far as the eye could see. The armies of the known world were locked in combat that would determine the outcome of history.

At the moment, no one cared about history. It was all about survival, about victory, about the elimination of the enemy.

By 5th century terms, the numbers were staggering. Estimates placed the number of the Mongolian invaders between 300,000 and 700,000. Roman general Aëtius shaded his eyes, wondering again if even the combined armies of Rome, Gaul, and the Gothic tribes were enough to halt the marauders. 

Aëtius risked everything, allying Rome with their mortal enemies. The Visigoths were long-time enemies of the Empire, in two centuries of battles that had cumulatively weakened both sides. Now, faced with a common enemy of unparalleled ferocity, the border skirmishes had been relegated to the background. Only by uniting could anyone hope to overcome the Barbarian hoards led by Attila the Hun.

Meticulous planning preceded the fight: planning by Aëtius, at least. The Mongol raiders attacked with the same disorganized brutality that was their trademark, the seemingly unstoppable power that had decimated most of Europe and prompted the construction of the Great Wall of China. Here, though, in the shadow of Châlon, the tide was turning. As the sun descended in the west, Attila's mighty army was actually losing ground, a fact that served to bolster the morale of the European allies.

How ironic and tragic that in this, the enemy looked like brothers.

Over the decades, the Roman army had absorbed members from the Germanic Goths and hired mercenaries from the Huns; while the Huns conscripted members from their conquered territory, including Italy and the Visigoth homeland. Only a few members of the enormous Hunnic army retained the racial characteristics of their Mongolian origins, including the now legendary King, Attila.

When darkness arrived on this decisive day, Aëtius was faced with a choice. He could put an end to Attila and his marauders once and for all, or he could grant the invaders an egress to escape. If he permitted escape, Attila would live to wreak more destruction. But spelling an end to the Hunnic raids could open the door for the Visigoths to sweep into Gaul, further deteriorating the Roman Empire.

In a decision with consequences that would span the centuries, Aëtius chose to permit the flight of the Huns.

What history didn't record, except in fragmented legend, is that the Roman General let Attila go at a price to the powerful chieftain.

Attila dug up a rusted sword years earlier, proclaiming the ancient weapon to be the Sword of Mars. Armed with the belief that the God of War backed them, the mass invaders were ruthless, uncaring that they sacrificed their own lives. While most of the world attributed the Huns with atheism, Aëtius knew better.

As the crippled Hunnic army retreated, Aëtius holstered the blade that signified power for the most cruel of conquerors. 

Attila's reign of terror wasn't over, but it would never again be the same.

"My god…"

Scully tucked a strand of titian hair behind her ear, her eyes wide with shock. In all her years with the FBI, and with the X-Files, she had never seen this kind of brutality.

She re-read the autopsy record, sickened by the report. The victim was raped and mutilated, tortured beyond words. The killer apparently had an intimate knowledge of human anatomy, and had employed it to the worst of ends. Blisters marred what little skin was still intact, burns that were calculated for pain. In other places the flesh had been stripped from the bone, skin from muscle, fingernails and toenails peeled away from their respective nail beds. 

More frightening still was the fact that this level of brutality was on the upswing, spreading outward from New York City and into the heartland.

The killer taunted law enforcement, sending email manifestos from public kiosks around the country, mostly from libraries. Interviews with visitors and library personnel yielded nothing. No one could recall seeing anyone using the computers at the moment time-stamped by the server, and the email, registered to 'Attila', was set up in the dummy town of Nowhere, USA.

Experts in the FBI's Internet Crimes division were stymied; backtracking did them no good and their alarm system did nothing except alert them hours after the email was sent. It seemed that 'Attila' was equally deft with electronics. He or she was using workarounds to access email without triggering alerts, and sending emails on a time-delay basis. Experts suspected that Attila was a hacker who was merely breaking into the libraries and other public venues, but to date, they still had been unable to establish any connections.

The case came to the X-Files when Attila's last manifesto arrived. In it, the killer claimed to _be_ Attila the Hun, reincarnated in the flesh of modern-day man. He or she also claimed to have recovered the Sword of Mars, the weapon that the original Mongol King carried with claims it gave him power. 

It was a claim that might have been chalked up as the incoherent ravings of a lunatic except for two things.

Historians determined that, according to the best available records, the murders were committed in the style of the ancient warrior. And three days ago, a letter had arrived at Trinity University, addressed to a Professor Sydney Fox, with an attached photo of a 5th century sword. In its hilt was etched the Roman symbol for the God of War. It was a computer generated letter signed by Attila, and it promised to raise the army of the Huns again in the Western World.


	2. The Hunter and the Hunted

452 AD

"John Doggett, FBI, and this is my partner, Dana Scully. We're looking for Professor Fox."

The willowy secretary's eyes rose to gape at the male Special Agent. "FBI?" she repeated in a Kewpie-doll voice. "Um, Professor Fox is gone. Out, I mean. She's got class. That is, she's teaching a class." Flustered, the willowy blonde girl excused herself. "I'll go get her."

She barely glanced at the diminutive redhead at his side, other than a dim acknowledgment that the other woman carried a badge, too.

Moments later, she returned with another student, a young man with a mop of light brown hair that fell into his eyes. When he spoke, his British accent belied the comfort level in his stance. He was clearly in his element here, in this office. Sticking out his hand, he shook first Scully's hand, then Doggett's, his rapid-fire monologue almost too fast to follow. "We were expecting you. You're the FBI agents, aren't you? I'm Nigel Bailey, Sydney's assistant. It's incredible, really, to think that we may have found the actual sword of Attila the Hun!"

Doggett's head jerked up. "You found the sword?"

"Well – no. But we have a photograph, and while it's hardly incontrovertible evidence, it's certainly a compelling possibility."

Scully stepped forward, clearing her throat. "To be perfectly honest, we're less interested in the sword than we are in who has it. Are you aware that the FBI has been trying to track a mass murderer who uses the pseudonym 'Attila'? Whoever it is, they're convinced that they really are a reincarnation of the 5th century warrior, and he's doing his damnedest to prove it. Assuming he's male, if he sent the photo and letter to Sydney, he may be planning to make her his next victim.

All the excitement drained from the young man's face. He turned just as a tall, dark, voluptuous woman entered, her exotic features reflecting her Hawaiian roots. 

"Professor Fox?" Scully's reaction was a smooth, businesslike transition into an introduction. It annoyed her to no end that the unflappable John Doggett had just gone agog. What was it about men and tall, leggy brunettes? 

She resisted the urge to be catty, though, when Sydney gave her a genuine smile. 

"Hi, you must be Scully. Mulder told me about you when I talked to him a couple of days ago. It must have been hell going through Quantico as a woman. God knows nobody wanted me to succeed in the grand halls of antiquities." Sydney's smile to Doggett was warm and professionally detached. Scully relaxed, instantly realizing that in Sydney Fox, she'd found more a kindred spirit than an enemy.

Besides, Scully realized guiltily, it wasn't like she had any claim on the man, anyway. She wasn't even his normal partner nowadays; she'd passed that torch on to Reyes, while she and Mulder had settled into their own odd version of domestic life.

She shook herself, dragging her attention back to the conversation that was beginning without her.

Young or not, Nigel Bailey was well-versed in history; at times, it seemed, more so than his boss. And while he yielded to Sydney's experience, the renowned Relic Hunter clearly respected and valued his input. It was clearly a symbiotic relationship, an easy camaraderie that promised to make things much easier for law enforcement. Sydney had been adamant that protective measures be expanded to include her assistant. She intimated that he'd once before been abducted as a means of manipulating her, and she wasn't about to let him fall prey to the monster who roamed the countryside at will.

"Will Fox be joining us?"

Scully blinked. Nobody called Mulder by his Christian name.

Nigel repeated patiently, "I suppose I should say, when will Fox be joining us? I thought he'd be with you now. I haven't seen him in forever." He caught the bewildered stares of the FBI agents and his boss. "He stayed at our house for a bit over the holidays, while he was at Oxford. He was an upperclassman and my brother Preston was a lowly freshman, but Preston told Fox about me, about my incessant quest for the inexplicable." Nigel shrugged. "Next thing I knew, we were discussing aliens and ancient powers and things that go bump in the night. We still meet for coffee once in a while, to compare notes. We've gone out to get up close to more crop circles and …" his voice trailed off and he ducked his head, confessing sheepishly, "Well, it wasn't always about the supernatural. He was a lot older than I was, of course, but women of all ages seemed to find him fascinating. And if some of that rubbed off on me, I wasn't complaining."

Within the hour, Mulder had indeed joined their ranks, as had Monica Reyes. The little blonde secretary, who Sydney introduced as Claudia, kept the entire group supplied with a steady stream of coffee and tea as they pieced together history and current events, trying to incorporate the old in hopes of stopping a new horror.

"If this guy really believes he's Attila, we might have hope. The real king of the Huns hammered out peace treaties, collecting a pretty impressive tribute from Rome rather than continuing to pillage. Before his death, Attila began to question the senseless, seemingly endless destruction. I don't think he would ever have qualified for a good neighbor award, but we might appeal to that aspect when dealing with the modern-day counterpart." Sydney tapped a finger over a textbook, one of several books spread over the top of her heavy mahogany desk.

"So what, you think we should bribe our killer into not killing any more?" Mulder retorted skeptically.

"No, I'm talking about a trap. Isn't the plan to bring your Attila out into the open?"

Doggett pursed his lips. His arms were crossed in front of him. "We already suspect that this guy is building himself an army. What's to stop him from sending one of his toadies along to collect any bait we set?"

"Maybe nothing, but I'd bet that toady could lead us back to his fearless leader," Reyes pointed out. "Willingly or not."

"What's your take on this?" Scully interjected, her question aimed at Reyes. "Mulder's not in the Bureau any more. Officially he's not here, remember?" 

"True, but even FBI agents are allowed to have their sources, aren't they?" drawled Doggett, grinning. "We've profiled this guy up one side and down the other, and everybody agrees. He's certifiable. We suspect he's also extremely charismatic, probably along the lines of Charles Manson or your average psycho cult leader. We find him, we still gotta be careful or we'll make him into a martyr."

Mulder mused, "Sydney, were you able to find out where the sword turned up, or any leads on how our suspect might have acquired it?"

"Only rumors," Nigel interjected. "And the rumors have been floating about for decades. The only reason I'd give any credence at all to the current ones is the photograph, and it could be a fake, though I don't think it is."

Sydney cocked her head to one side. "Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way. Obviously, the killer is nuts, he thinks he's Attila the Hun reincarnated. So if our 5th century warrior were plopped into 21st century America, the question is, where would he go? What would he need to survive? Would he be in a population center, out in the country, what? There are arguments for both sides of that scenario. We know that the Huns were accomplished riders. Some accounts actually credit the real Attila with the invention of the stirrup, which gave the Mongol army tactical advantage sixteen hundred years ago. We know it first appeared during his reign. It seems minor now, but back then it permitted them power, speed, and accuracy with bow and arrow and spears while on horseback. Does our modern-day Attila ride a horse or drive a Mustang?"

"There's another possibility," Mulder said quietly. "What if our killer really IS the reincarnation of Attila the king of the Huns?"

Predictably, Doggett rolled his eyes. Reyes glanced at Scully, who shrugged. Nigel smothered a grin. "Still at it, eh?" he remarked to Mulder. "Well, I for one won't automatically dismiss the possibility, though I'd be more inclined to say he's possessed by the spirit of the warrior."

"Either way, he's deadly and he's out to get you." Reyes's comment halted all other conversation. The dark-haired FBI agent had picked up the letter from the killer, the one addressed to the historian. "He wants you, Sydney. I also don't think he has the sword, not yet. I think he WANTS it, and he expects you to find it for him." Her fingers trailed over the page protector, tracing the large print. "He will do anything to get it, including killing someone close to you. Whoever he is, he knows you well, or knows a lot about you. You weren't a random choice."

A year later, Mulder still wasn't used to being 'naked'. Sans badge, he felt a little like a child, though the pistol tucked into its ankle holster went a long way toward reassuring him of his competence. In or out of the Bureau, he still carried FBI training. He'd been approached by a couple of law enforcement agencies, and he had been tempted by their respective offers. In the end, a tiny little detail had changed his mind.

William.

The little boy was now eleven months old and jabbering wildly, his hazel eyes and shock of red hair enough to make him stand out in any crowd. Scully had pointed out that if she was going to remain with the Bureau, William needed at least one parent to have a "safe" job.

It turned out to be the best thing that had ever happened to Mulder. Once he decided to walk away from law enforcement, he discovered a whole new avenue for pursuing his passion. 

He became a reporter for a national magazine, one which had a reputation for integrity while exploring governmental abuses and underhanded agendas. They also, as it turned out, had a virtual library of records on extraterrestrials, paranormal events, and governmental coverups of the same.

Working from home three days out of five, he kept his son with him, in the same apartment where the child had been conceived. While Scully never pressed him about marriage and he didn't bring it up, there had never been any question about the child's paternity, not after William was born. They maintained their separate residences, though for Mulder, his apartment had become little more than an office.

Scully's mother was keeping the baby for the duration of this 'project'. Once Mulder realized who was involved – he knew Sydney by reputation and Nigel personally – the former FBI agent jumped in and demanded to be a part of the case, citing a list of reasons which were at least partly legitimate.

Now, he watched as the dark-haired history teacher paced the floor of the motel room. He could sympathize. There was a certain injustice to the fact that the victim was effectively imprisoned for her own safety while a psychotic killer roamed free. Nigel was in the adjoining room, the door ajar so the six people could talk back and forth.

When the phone rang to the room, everyone tensed. All calls from both Sydney's and Nigel's homes, and from Nigel's cell phone, had been routed to this line. A DAT system was now attached to record any calls, and a set of headphones ran from the Digital Audio Tape machine. Mulder clamped the headset over his ears and nodded for Sydney to pick up the phone.

The voice at the other end of the line was low and hypnotic and decidedly masculine. "Sydney, I'm impressed. The New Ritz? Very classy. Very expensive. Hello, Mulder; your son is really handsome. So is Scully's mother."

The click on the other end of the line hit less than fifteen seconds after the call was connected. The dial tone assured that there had been nowhere near enough time to trace it back to its source.

All hell broke loose inside the dual rooms. Mulder's face had gone stark white, alerting his former partner and colleagues and the historians that something was dreadfully wrong. A phone call to Margaret Scully echoed in Mulder's ear, the ring unanswered. Touching base with Skinner confirmed their worst fears.

Both Mrs. Scully and the baby were missing, and all signs pointed toward a double kidnapping.

Scully was ashen and trembling. Doggett snarled orders into the phone, and Reyes attempted to comfort the bereaved parents.

Glancing around her at the havoc wrought so swiftly, Sydney made a decision. She collected Nigel's cell phone and ducked out the door. It had been knocked free of its connection and rang once, and only once. In the aftermath of the bad news, she was assured that no one would notice she was gone until she was well beyond reach. With one hand she dialed an order to end the call forwarding altogether; with the other, she grabbed the doorknob to the stairwell.

Gut instinct told her that their killer wasn't going to be easily found by high tech means. He wanted a return to the past. That didn't mean that he wouldn't employ a little technology to suit himself.

Thumbing a small plastic wheel set into the side of the cell phone, she murmured, "Bingo!" There on the display was the phone number for the last call. It was an unfamiliar number and the time stamp was unmistakable. A quick dial and she recognized the same modulated voice. She half-ran, half walked down the stairs, glad at least that she was carrying a fair amount of cash and was wearing flat, rubber-soled shoes that would mask the sounds of her departure.

"Very good, Sydney. I knew you wouldn't fail me."

"Where's the baby and the woman?" she demanded. "You send them home safely, I help you. Otherwise I assume they're already dead and you get nothing."

The chuckle at the other end of the line set her teeth on edge. "Don't patronize me. We both know the rules to this little game. You give me what I want, you get the woman and the baby. You fail, they die. They die badly, I might add."

Poker playing was nothing compared to the bluff she threw back at him. "Not a prayer, buster. You kill them, you get squat. How about a trade? I come with you, and I stay with you, until you get what you want. You have my word, and you have me."

She wasn't naïve enough to believe it would be that simple. She was merely buying time.

But she didn't notice the shadow that trailed her into the parking garage. The figure slipped silently in behind her, folding out of sight behind the driver's seat of her jeep as she pulled away.


	3. Messenger Service

452 AD

The day started off like hell and things were going quickly downhill.

Reyes stretched to relieve the kinks in her neck and glanced around, frowning. Something was amiss. Or more accurately, someone was _missing_. "Nigel, where's Sydney?" she asked. Her question hung in the air for a moment, the words seeping into everyone's collective consciousness. 

The little Englishman froze in place, panic washing over his face as the absence struck him. "Sydney!" he exclaimed morosely. He pivoted on his heel, a full 360º, though he clearly already knew the outcome. "God, how could he get her from in here?"

"He didn't get her. She left." Doggett's tie was loose and the top button of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. They anticipated a long day cooped up in a motel. Now his words were clipped with frustration. "We were so distracted she just waltzed out of here, nothing to it." He combed his fingers through the short, sandy ruff of his hair and swore under his breath. "I should have been watching her. She's so high strung, I should have known she'd pull something like this."

"No, _I_ should have known. I work with Sydney all the time, and this is so exactly like her. She hits the ground running and never looks back. Dammit, she thinks she's invincible, and she's not. She's going to get herself killed!" Nigel was pacing, wringing his hands, and making no effort to hide his agitation.

Reyes forced the worry from her mind, closing her eyes in a moment's silent meditation. If ever she needed the ability to reach beyond herself, it was now. Then again, she thought with a shudder, the only time she'd had any psychic experiences, they were associated with death. Maybe she _didn't_ wish for a revelation, after all. "Sydney's not going to be killed," Reyes said with conviction not entirely based on instinct. "Not if we do our jobs. She only… complicated things."

"That settles it. We can't sit here any more." Scully's eyes were red limned with tears, but her expression was pure determination. "Reyes, Mulder, you're the best profilers the FBI has ever seen. Agent Doggett, you're the most logical person I know. Nigel, you're an expert in ancient history, and I'm a scientist. Between us, we have to find a baby, two women, and a psychotic killer. I for one am not ready to sit on my ass while anything else goes wrong. Nigel, get all those books and pack them up. We're hitting the road."

Not for the first time, Reyes was impressed. Scully might look like a porcelain doll, but she had a backbone of steel, even in the face of her own horror.

"Not without me, you're not," remarked Mulder. He was throwing books and folders into a file box, his impassive face far more calm than anyone expected.

Doggett snapped, "Where the hell are you going? We don't know where she went, other than the safe bet that our puppet master is pulling her strings!"

Reyes pulled a textured plastic attache from beneath the desk and flipped it open. She clicked a switch and a steady, comforting, familiar beep brought a smile to her lips. "We might not have known how to track our psycho, but tracking a history teacher is a little simpler when you know what she drives." She glanced at Mulder. "Where did you put it, by the way?"

Mulder shrugged on the leather jacket that had become as familiar a uniform as the suit he'd worn while working for the FBI. "The homing signal is nestled under the passenger seat of the jeep, snug as a bug in a rug. And just in case she gets separated from the vehicle, I planted a little bitty bug in the phone. Byers is taping calls and tracking her from the Gunmen's love nest."

Reyes smiled grimly. "Let's get ready to rumble."

Knuckles white on the steering wheel, Sydney gripped the cell phone to her ear, straining to hear every malevolent word over the hum of the engine and the whistle of the wind through the open vehicle. "Left on McNary?" she repeated, flinching as the voice roared back a resounding _NO!_ She immediately spun into the right lane and rounded the corner at a fast clip, following the killer's instructions as she wound her way through to a seedy strip of warehouses along the pier.

The string of sea vessels did nothing to reassure her. This was a working fisherman's wharf, though this particular site looked like it probably harbored more illegal fishing expeditions than legal ones. If she left on one of the boats, no one would ever find her and she couldn't hope to escape on foot from the middle of the ocean.

Sydney pulled to a stop in front of a dilapidated building, its peeling paint declaring that it was a restaurant. She thought the word was far too kind for the scents that oozed from its doorway, but at the directives of the voice, she walked into the milling crowd. Burley customers leered at her from every corner, letting loose with cheers, wolf whistles, and several kinds of propositions. Giving them her best intimidating look, honed by years of teaching, Sydney pushed her way through the men and a few she thought were women. She gritted her teeth, doing her best to ignore the invasive hands that invariably connected with her body. Now wasn't the time or place to launch a counterattack, she reminded herself forcefully.

Sweat and grime seasoned the place, and the acrid tones of her own fear curled into her nostrils. Sydney had been afraid before. 

She prayed she'd live to be afraid again.

"That's a good girl. Now go up to the bar and ask for a Shirley Temple with a chocolate twist."

Easing one hip onto a barstool smeared with dried materials of dubious origin, Sydney did as she was told. The grizzled bartender blinked, not sure he heard right. She repeated her order, loudly, defiantly, her jaw set at a murderous slant. 

A second later, her shadow's hand whipped out, clamping a sickly-sweet scented rag over her nose and mouth. She drifted into darkness before completing the epithet that expressed her opinion on the situation.

Bile rose again in Mulder's throat. He knew FBI protocol, knew that if he was part of the case initially, as a consultant, his involvement flew out the window they discovered that William and Mrs. Scully had been taken. Officially, Scully, too, was removed from the job, but her eyes bared fangs at anyone who challenged her participation. 

Effectively locked out of the "official" investigation, he pursued the matter in his own way, firing off a list of alerts to his growing web of informants. One thing he'd discovered shortly after leaving the Bureau: there was a whole other world of information available to the media. People called, emailed, or stopped you on the street to tell you things that they'd never, ever tell a law officer. Suddenly, the information he'd sought before, now sought him.

So far, most of his published articles fell within the mainstream. A congressman who solicited bribes; a buried police investigation, blocked because the officer in charge was also leader of the cult; a member of the cabinet who hired a killer to silence her lesbian lover… Then there had been the environmental disaster outside of Denver, a toxic chemical leak that had gone unchecked for more than a decade while local and national officials looked the other way. 

Of course, _Drum and Fife Magazine_ also covered the glitz and the more mundane matters, publishing vanity interviews with celebrities and politicians, covering international summits, reviewing movies and music, and addressing social issues. When the Queen of Amur eloped during her tour of the U.S., her personal assistant called in to advise _D&F_. Mulder had taken that call, and while it didn't interest him personally, he recognized the news value. Her Majesty even emailed wedding photos, attached to a brief note of appreciation. Queen Celeste cited her reasons, including the knowledge that _D&F_ would report fairly and without sensationalism.

His FBI informants followed him to his current job. It surprised him, the degree to which he engendered loyalty. It also surprised him to find that the management of D&F gave credence to his theories about extraterrestrials, about the government's involvement with UFO cover ups, and even about the paranormal. The only cautions he received were to document the hell out of everything - and to be careful.

Going from FBI outcast to star reporter in the space of a year had been quite an experience. In the news business, paranoia was an asset, indigenous to the psyche of every reporter worth his or her salt. Not only did nobody hold it against Mulder, but the trait was actually encouraged. "Truth" was mantra of the entire sub-culture. It embodied the journalistic requirement to look beyond face value, to find the truth behind the truth, and the belief that an accurately informed public meant a safer place for everyone. 

Mulder's eyes misted with unshed tears as his investigator's mind ruminated over the possibilities. Sometimes being a criminal profiler was a curse.

Attila didn't take hostages. He killed outright, as did his expanding army. For some deaths, the motivation was robbery. For others, there was no identifiable reason except the sick desire for destruction and death. Mulder's mind played out every grisly detail of the murderer's MO, picturing his tiny son and Scully's sweet-natured mother in the grip of the madman. Mulder didn't want the pictures, didn't want the horror, but it clung to his consciousness, squeezing his sanity from him like boa constrictor clamped around his psyche.

"Mulder?"

Shaking himself, the former FBI agent turned and gazed up at his old friend. The boys had long since gotten over the fact that Mulder had technically become their competition. It helped considerably when Scully had made them all three godfathers to William.

Langly explained quietly, "We've got an idea, but we need to get moving. Jeep's parked at McNamara Pier. Frohike is already on his way; he can pass for one of the locals better than anyone else, but I figured I'd drive." Not waiting for Mulder to argue, Langly yanked the keys from his friend's hand.

Mulder figured he must look like hell for that dramatic a reaction from the Gunman. A chill ran up his spine. McNamara Pier meant boats. If they put out to sea…


	4. Close Encounters of the Terrifying Kind

452 AD

The understated sedans stuck out like sore thumbs where they were parked on the far end of the wharf. Scully glanced down at her casual attire and realized that she was no less out of place. None of the dock workers wore a beige cashmere blend jacket over fluid matching trousers. Here, haute couture meant a clean flannel shirt and jeans and a two-day beard. Mulder's jeans and leather jacket were only a little less conspicuous. Next to most of their observers, the former FBI agent looked like a male model.

Reyes at least had worn jeans, her dark hair locked into a tight knot at the back of her head and her face free of cosmetics. Her creamy fisherman's sweater was loose enough to disguise much of her willowy figure, and her rubber-soled boots were an exact match for those worn by many of the fishermen. Something about Reyes's stance told Scully that the woman was no stranger to the sea.

Only Doggett looked like he truly belonged. With his wiry build, the weathered masculinity of his face, and the faded denim jeans and lined jacket, he could probably have moved easily among these men and women if he came alone.

"There's Sydney's jeep!"

Nigel's voice drew startled gasps from all three FBI agents, and Mulder nearly jumped out of his skin. The British bookworm had been transformed. His face was unchanged, but he'd acquired the slouch and attire – and the scents - of the crews that studiously ignored the better-dressed invaders. "I've learned a thing or two about blending in with the natives," the young man said defensively. "Sometimes you don't want to be seen for who you are!" He'd materialized seemingly from nowhere.

Inside the jeep, an envelope was taped to the steering wheel. It was addressed to Nigel, written in Sydney's hurried script. God only knew how or when the woman had written it. It was frustratingly blithe. _"Nigel, I couldn't just stand around any more. The weight of the world was on my shoulders. We know all about Attila, about the Steppes, the horsemanship. The year was right then and it's right now. I know you're doing your best, but there are too many lives at stake. Sydney."_

"Nothing helpful," Scully sighed, suppressing a moan. Her baby and her mother were in the possession of a murderous lunatic and Sydney Fox was still talking obscure history.

"All right, Sydney!" Nigel's grin belied the nebulous message.

Doggett frowned. "What, are you nuts? Your little friend might be dead."

"I know," Nigel replied softly. "But she drew us a map. See?"

"I don't see no map." The former New York cop wasn't in the mood for wasting time.

"Look, it's as plain as the nose on your face. She spelled it all out for us. The Steppes are steps. It means the upper level. Look, just follow me, okay? Let's see…" The four other men and women were hard pressed to keep up with the small figure who darted toward the row of ships. Here, hard eyes stared at them from the ships and the shore, but no one openly challenged them. 

Scully was growing more edgy with every step she took. Shivering, she pulled her long trench coat closer to her. She unconsciously edged closer to Mulder, forcing herself to breathe, to walk, to pretend that she was still living, that her soul hadn't been ripped from her body,

"Damn," Reyes swore under her breath. "That's it. It has to be."

Scully's eyes rose up the steel arc of the boat. Across its bow was emblazoned a stylized horse and the name "Mongolian Stallion."

"What's the date today?" Mulder asked aloud. "The 18th, isn't it?"

"Yeah, why?" Doggett replied.

Nigel gestured to a marker. The ship was tethered to slip number 182001. A glance at the side of the vessel was further proof. Beneath the name, smaller numbers and letters were stenciled on, marking some kind of registration. The numbers read "432-453AD". The historian mumbled, "Of course. The years of Attila's reign. The year was right _then_ and it's right _now_."

"They're on the ship!" Mulder gasped as he realized that the vessel was preparing for a hasty departure.

Two powerful strides each carried the larger men to the gangway, where their reception was understandably chilly. A man barked out a threat from the deck of the boat, snarling in a language neither Mulder nor Doggett understood. Nigel hurried in behind them, translating, "He says you don't look seaworthy." The young scholar yelled back to the captain in a halting variation of the guttural tongue. Nigel's phrase drew pouts and groans from most of the crew and a look of disgust from their challenger. "He's the captain," Nigel explained in an aside. "I told him you're health inspectors. I told him either you board with his cooperation or you can seize his boat and impound it for a month."

Playing along, Mulder nodded knowingly in the direction of the captain, whose frown deepened even as reluctant acquiescence seeped into the slouch of his shoulders.

The captain leveled an angry glare at Doggett and Mulder, but they were allowed to board. The young historian was blocked. Nigel shrugged helplessly. "They said I'm not a health inspector so I don't need to join you!" he called to the current and former FBI agents. He didn't look terribly disappointed at his exclusion.

Winds whipped the water into a frenzy, suggesting that a storm was on its way. There were shouts from inside and outside the boat, but Mulder and Doggett focused on a thorough search, winding their way through the narrow passageways, largely ignoring the scowls and unintelligible demands of their 'guide'. Their eyes skimmed over the refrigeration section, its ice makers standing ready. Both men were surprised to find that the storage compartments truly were clean.

They didn't really expect to find the hostages in the refrigerator, but it would be tricky to manipulate a tour of the crew quarters and all the niches and crannies. As tight as things were, there were still endless hiding places. Finally Doggett glared at their tour guide and sniffed, "You afraid we're gonna find something? Let us do our jobs!"

The scruffy young man let loose with a rapid-fire response and stalked away, giving them the opportunity they needed. The duo agreed to split up so they could do a better job of hunting. With the crew topside preparing to depart, Mulder and Doggett were pretty much left alone.

Half an hour later they met back at the door to the refrigeration unit. They exchanged glances. "Nothing?"

"Nope."

Mulder's jaw worked. "Taking any bets?"

"That we're out in the middle of the ocean? Nope. It's a sure thing." Doggett leaned against the bulkhead, pursing his lips. "I guess you could say we fell for it hook, line, and sinker."

"*The weight of the world… _right_ then and it's _right_ now…*"

Standing on the weathered wood of the pier, Nigel started to shake. "Weight… Wait. Oh god, WAIT! She said _WAIT!_ We've got to get them off of there!"

Scully and Reyes stared at the young man. Reyes looked mildly amused. Scully was frowning. "What the hell are you talking about, Nigel?" The redhead's expression threatened serious consequences if the young man didn't answer her very fast.

"They're not on the boat! Sydney's note said _wait_, it also said it's _right_. We turn _right_ from the boat and…" He turned, pointing. "There, that warehouse. It's to the right. They're in the warehouse!"

Scully didn't waste time trying to kill the historian. She lunged at the trawler, knowing even as she did that it was too late. The sailors smirked and whistled, laughing at her from several yards away as the engine revved and the vessel began to pull out from its slip. "Mulder!" she screamed. "Agent Doggett!"

Reyes and Nigel joined in her frantic calls a moment later, all of them knowing they'd never be heard. Even if their companions weren't disabled or unconscious, the sounds of three panicked voices would be lost inside the departing ship.

Reyes scribbled the name and registration onto a notepad while juggling her cell phone to call in a report. The FBI and the Coast Guard would set off on a cooperative effort and the fishing trawler wouldn't get far.

Now that Mulder and Doggett were out of reach, Scully turned her attentions to the little Englishman, who was loping toward the huge building. "Nigel, don't!" she yelled, her sense of duty overcoming the overwhelming desire to throttle him. "You could be –"

The shot rang out before she had the chance to complete her sentence. The impact of the bullet flung Nigel to the ground instantly, where he lay unmoving.

The shooting didn't stop there. Scully and Reyes scrambled for cover as the sniper fired round after round. Collecting the injured scholar was out of the question for now. A bullet shattered a corner of the wooden crate that sheltered the two female FBI agents, firing off splinters, tiny bits of shrapnel that pierced Reyes's and Scully's flesh.

"NIGEL!"

Sydney's scream was cut short as a large, masked figure backhanded her, then pushed her into a waiting van. Effectively imprisoned by sniper fire, the female FBI agents watched helplessly while the hostages were driven away.

The van was abandoned less than two blocks away. The trawler was found, dead in the water and empty, a few miles out from the shore.

Not only had they not found William or Mrs. Scully, but Attila now had three more hostages with whom to negotiate, and their young historical consultant lay fighting for life in a Connecticut hospital.


	5. Penny for your Thoughts

452 AD

Margaret Scully rocked her grandson, who managed to sleep despite his agitation. So far, thank god, their captors had treated them relatively well. She'd acquired a bruise or two, but the baby was untouched. They'd been fed, and a large package of diapers sat in the corner, along with bottles and other necessities. Whoever these kids were, someone among them knew about caring for infants.

Children themselves, their abductors spent a lot of their time in horseplay. If either Margaret or the new captive watched for the right opportunity, there was a good chance they could escape. 

Eyeing the Polynesian beauty, Margaret sighed. What drove young women to choose such dangerous lifestyles? Dana never told her mother the things that happened to her. This woman had quietly recounted one adventure after another, most in which she escaped death only by dumb luck.. Margaret didn't question the child's veracity. Sydney knew intimately too many details about too many places, descriptions clearly based on memory and not imagination. 

Whether solely because of William or because they considered her no threat, Margaret remained unbound, while Sydney was tied hand and foot. It was risky, but Mrs. Scully planned to change that soon. Fortunately, the younger woman's tone never changed while Margaret's fingers plucked nimbly at the knotted ropes. If she could just get Sydney free…

There was a commotion outside and Margaret swiftly focused on William, keeping both hands in full view when one of the children turned toward her. The teenager straightened into a posture of full military attention.

A moment later the door flew open and two new hostages were thrown into the room. The men were battered and gasping and bound too tightly to stop the impacts of their respective falls. Both groaned as they connected hard with the unforgiving floor. A man entered then, a small man of uncertain heritage. His dark eyes were hard and glittered with unmistakable insanity. His gaze finally settled on Sydney and he pointed to her. "Bring her to me."

Margaret's heart sunk. Sydney was still tied up and would be at the mercy of the madman. She also recognized the two new hostages. Mrs. Scully was now solely responsible for rescuing herself, William, Sydney, and the incapacitated Agent Doggett and Fox Mulder.

"Damn, you look hot. You should do this for a living."

"Shut the hell up, you twisted little chimpanzee, or I'll send you back home to the zoo. The circus would gladly loan me their cannon. Wanna go for a fly?" Langly glared at his flawlessly shabby and imperiously short companion. "Frohike, so help me God, if even one dude comes on to me, I'm going to puke, and then I'm going to beat the living crap out of you. Come to think of it, even if some dude doesn't come on to me, I'm going to beat the living crap out of you." 

Sans horn-rimmed glasses and decked out in glorious drag, Langly looked a lot like what he was: a tall, lanky, angular man whose feet were pinched by a pair of black pumps, who kept trying to pluck pantyhose out of his ass, and who was kicking himself for ever agreeing to this romp. "Dustin Hoffman did it. Dustin Hoffman did it. I'm an actor," chanted the blond geek, gritting his teeth against each and every word. "Tell me again why I'm doing this."

The unlikeliest of duos traipsed up and down in front of Attila's current hideout. Here in Harlem, practically nobody gave a second look to a tall blond transvestite walking with an extremely short, grubby man. The only ones who did were a couple of pros who were working the area. Once Frohike grabbed Langly and kissed him, declaring undying love, the streetwalkers ignored them.

The young guards smirked but didn't attempt to chase them off. And while Langly and Frohike entertained the troops, Byers bypassed simple alarms to gain entry to the building.

Sydney kept her wits about her. Unlike Margaret Scully, she didn't underplay the danger posed by the children. Regardless of their age, these were warriors, too-young soldiers being fed into a war based on nothing but the senseless appetites of a madman. These kids would kill on command, coldly and capably. Sydney's stomach churned at the knowledge that she might be required to strike or even kill one of the young guards. The awareness gave her even more loathing for the squat, middle-aged beast who strode before her like he was a monarch. 

"Ah, but I _am_ a monarch, Sydney Fox. And you are right. My new army will kill if provoked. Not you, of course; you are integral to my quest. But you left behind companions. Some are here, some outside, one in a hospital. I could kill them all at a single command. I know all about you. You'll help me if it means saving lives."

The words sent a chill down her spine. "You can read minds now, too?" she asked, only half-sarcastic.

Her captor turned to her, and this time she saw him clearly. The angles and planes of his face were crisscrossed with fine scars and his flesh bore a patina she couldn't explain. It was like watching a statue or painting come to life. Only one rough execution of the 5th century Attila the Hun had survived the centuries, a small fresco on the wall of a Roman ruin. If this wasn't the depicted man, it was his spawn, thousands of generations removed. Staring into his eyes was like looking into a telescope and watching history as it was lived.

"I always could," he sneered. "The Sword was my beacon, no more. With or without it, I can will the kingdoms of the world to bow down and they'll do it. But I want it, and you will help me to acquire it."

"Ah, so now you're the antichrist," Sydney remarked, keeping her tone carefully neutral. She was marking the path they took, knowing she might be required to retrace her steps in a hurry. "That explains a lot." Getting herself out wasn't the problem. Getting the other hostages to safety was a _big_ problem, one for which she didn't yet have an answer.

Malevolent laughter bounced from the wall. "Yes, I am." The succinct answer chilled the relic hunter to the bone. Whether it was true or not, this man believed every word.

Swallowing, Sydney realized that she couldn't dismiss an incredible possibility no one had ever considered - that this was neither reincarnation nor psychosis -

That this _was _Attila the Hun, somehow returned to life.

Rain sheeted over the windshield, a downpour that dropped visibility to near zero. In Scully's heart, visibility already hovered near zero. With both William and Mulder missing, she was so blinded with grief that nothing existed beyond the relentless halo of pain that enveloped her.

Being taken off the case was a formality. She knew that she would be worse than useless and knew that she wouldn't bow out no matter what it did to her career. Skinner's official dismissal in his office was underscored by something almost like humor. He knew when he gave her the news that she would throw it into a mental trash can and plow ahead just like the orders never existed. 

It was what Mulder would do. 

It was what she would now do, too, and heaven help anyone who really tried to stop her.

She pulled her nondescript gray sedan into the parking garage of the New Haven hospital, praying that Nigel was more coherent today than yesterday. The doctor in her hated questioning a young man who was hurt and frightened and alone in a country that was not his own. How ironic that in all of her years of chasing aliens, an alien of a different kind would become so critical to her family's survival.

A perfunctory umbrella shielded her head, its somber black bowl inverted over equally dismal trench coat. Black had become her normal mode of dress, but today it was her mourning attire, a bleak reflection of the darkness that roiled within her soul. Rain, oblivious to her dejection, continued its battery against the thin nylon shell beneath which she hid.

The young historian remained in intensive care, slipping in and out of consciousness, occasionally calling out for a mother who was dead and buried, or for his missing companion, Sydney. 

Scully straightened as she entered Nigel's room, pleating the damp folds of her coat over her arm after shaking off the excess moisture. It was a dance, the façade of normalcy where none existed. She'd gotten up this morning, applied a thin masque of cosmetics, dressed in suit and pantyhose, sliding her feet into heeled pumps. The sun refused to kowtow to the fact that her world was at a standstill.

Pasting on a practiced smile, she forced her body to stride forward. She had become a mannequin of a sorts, and she was never quite certain who was pulling the strings to keep her upright when her knees threatened to collapse beneath her. "Nigel?" she asked softly, torn between wanting to let the little Briton heal and wanting to drag him out to help her find her child and Mulder.

"Hello, Miss Scully. Any word? Anything at all?"

So far, so good. His voice was weak, but when Nigel turned his head to look at her, there was a cognizance in his eyes that had been absent the day before.

"No," she admitted bitterly. "I'm sorry. I'm hoping you can help me. The Lone Gunmen – " At his puzzled expression, she sighed, "Don't ask. Suffice to say they're friends, for lack of a better term. They tracked Attila's entourage to a warehouse in Watts, they got inside, and discovered that it was all a sleight of hand. They were diverted into a trap that could have killed them, and we didn't find anyone." Her words were ragged with emotion, but considering that she wasn't on FBI time, she no longer cared. This was personal for her, and she didn't have to be told that it was personal for Nigel, too.

Pulling a crinkled page from her purse, she held it so the expert could see. "Does this make any sense to you?" The uneven scratches and doodles on the parchment meant nothing to her.

Nigel's eyes went wide. "It's not possible. This is modern paper, but that writing is ancient Scythian, signed by Attila, King of the Huns."


	6. Joining the Repercussion Section

452 AD

"I'm afraid you'll have to leave now. Mr. Bailey needs his rest."

As Scully turned to the nurse, Nigel slipped the paper out of sight under the covers. While he wasn't fluent in the ancient runic languages, he intended to at least attempt a rudimentary translation, no matter what. Scully promised to return with a couple of texts he'd use to clear up the rest. This was his particular gift, and too much was at stake for him to let it go, no matter how he felt. Sydney saved his life countless times, and in this, he would do all he could to save hers.

Surely the killer was aware of his _faux pas_. While the ancient Hunnic Attila composed letters, he almost certainly employed a scribe to do the actual writing, and it would not have been in this form. The inscriptions on the page were old in style, but they were more like an earlier variation of the Codex from Nicolsburg, the earliest documented written Scythian language. And Nicolsburg, circa the 1400's, was a millennium away from the savage warrior king of world history.

The Scyths appeared in centuries after descendants of the Huns disappeared, their bloodlines mingled with those of the Slavic and Roman people they conquered. Hungary acquired its name from fierce invaders of its distant past.

It was a full five minutes before he was left to pore over the rough script. It was more difficult than he'd expected. His eyes refused to focus for more than a few moments, and his memory was equally unreliable. He had nothing with which to write and nothing to write on.

A couple of hours later he had a grasp of the basics, though details were still indecipherable.

It was a ransom note that promised to kill the hostages, beginning with Mulder, unless Nigel followed the instructions exactly. Unfortunately, until he had his linguistic bibles, he didn't even know what he was supposed to do. And something told him that even when he did know, it might be impossible.

Or too late.

Meanwhile, Monica Reyes had her own problems. With Mulder, Doggett, and Sydney missing, and Scully officially off the case, Reyes caught the brunt of things from the Bureau. 

Skinner was only marginally sympathetic. With so many FBI and former FBI personnel now categorized as victims, there was a whole new department set up just to try and track Attila and crew. "You and Agent Doggett were supposed to keep your wits about you. And what do you do? You stand outside while Mulder and Doggett are kidnapped by boat, and you stand by helplessly while the other hostages are paraded in front of you. The newspapers are having a field day!"

The dark-haired woman swallowed. "I know that, Sir. You do know that it was the Bailey kid's translation that pointed Mulder and Doggett to the trawler, don't you? And that we were under direct fire the entire time the other hostages were moved?" Best not to mention that Nigel loped off while they weren't paying attention to him.

"Yes, Agent Reyes, I know that. I also know that hell or high water wouldn't have kept Scully and Mulder away. The two of them are…" Skinner sighed, yanking wire-rimmed spectacles away from his face. " They are two of the most intense individuals I have ever met. And this is about Scully's family."

Reyes noticed how he shied away from saying that it was Mulder's family. She also noticed the tension etched into every inch of the Assistant Director's muscular frame. If his words were terse, low, and abrupt, his body language was practically screaming at her. Not for the first time, Reyes wondered exactly what kind of relationship Skinner had with Mulder and Scully. It was almost as though it were Skinner's family.

They sat inside Skinner's office, but both were perched on the edge of their own worry. Reyes fought against a picture of torture and death for her recently-appointed partner, John Doggett, and thoughts of equal portions of horror for Mulder. Her mind shut down when it broached thoughts of what the monster would do to the baby and to Mrs. Scully. In her job, she saw graphic, sickening examples of what happened to children in the hands of madmen, and each tiny face of death vied to haunt her every waking and sleeping moment. Imagining the horror visited on the sweet infant she'd held and watched grow over the past year –

It was more than she could take, even in the uncertainty of imagination.

"How is the Bailey kid?"

Apparently the lecture was over. Skinner's shoulders slumped in unspoken defeat, and she realized he hated himself for the dressing-down he gave her. He knew all too well that it wasn't her fault. He honestly didn't blame her.

"Better," she replied. "Scully saw him earlier today. She said he's talking and he's working on the translation of our manifesto." Reyes resisted the urge to pluck at some invisible bit of lint on her skirt. Not for the first time, she felt a surge of envy at Scully. The redhead's world was falling apart, and she didn't smoke, didn't cry, didn't so much as have a hair out of place. Psychologically it wasn't healthy, of course, but it still reminded Reyes how different she was. 

People expected the cool, collected, logical Dana Scully in the X-Files. Instead they got a tall, dark, gangly woman who couldn't stop smoking and who believed in spiritual realities. Like it or not, she was an outsider. 

Maybe she would always be an outsider.

"I'd like to check on Nigel Bailey's progress, if that's all right with you, Sir."

Skinner's reply was a halfhearted grunt of consent.

Mulder groaned, opened his eyes to stare directly into Doggett's stare, and groaned again.

"Well, you ain't pretty, either, Mulder."

Mulder's moan and Doggett's dour remark had drawn Margaret Scully's attention. She ordered softly, "Shhhh – Listen. If I can get your hands untied, do you think you can temporarily disable our guards without hurting them? They're just kids."

"Sure," Mulder replied with a great deal more confidence than he had a right to feel. "Do you think you can find something I can use to cut through the ropes?" He couldn't see her and didn't know she wasn't bound, too.

"No, but since the baby's asleep it shouldn't be that difficult to untie you," she replied dryly. She moved in next to him, wondering if their 'hosts' were listening to the conversation. Years of knitting and crocheting gave her an expert touch at loosening stubborn knots, and she made quick work of the men's bonds.

It was the first time that their guards had left them alone. "I hope I disabled that camera," Mrs. Scully worried aloud. "Every time I tried to use Bill's 35 mm, it was completely out of focus. He said I had a real knack for it. Let's hope he's right." 

She held out her palm to display the lens she'd removed.

Doggett glanced up at the crippled instrument. The disabled camera was still suspended from the low ceiling, but its face was notably open. The former policeman chuckled. "I think it's a safe bet it worked like a charm." He pushed himself up and shook the woman's hand. "Thanks. Mrs. Scully, right?"

"Yes, I am. How's Dana? Does she know that William and I are all right?"

"We're working on that. Any idea where we are?"

A siren sounded in the distance, its wail distorting as it moved. "Sounds like we're upstairs," Mulder answered. "Way upstairs, is my guess."

Blinking, Doggett challenged, "How do you know that?"

Mulder shrugged. "Doppler effect. The ambulance moved past us and the tones shifted. But it was at a distance, and underfoot. Had to be pretty far down."

Tilting her head to one side, Mrs. Scully listened. "A city," she surmised. "Someplace big. We were blindfolded once inside the car, couldn't see where they were taking us, but there was a lot of traffic around us when we got here. You could hear street vendors and gunshots. None of the latter very close at the time, but since then we've heard some pretty loud reports." 

At the men's expressions, she chided gently, "I was married to a military man, gentlemen. Bill never gave me any national secrets, but he DID teach me some basic survival techniques. Did you think Dana inherited all of her intelligence from her father, or were you under the impression that becoming a grandmother automatically makes you senile?"


	7. The Enemy Within

452 AD
    
    Shaky fingers compared the lines in the now dog-eared text, as Nigel pored over the ramblings of the madman. Nothing was cut and dried; there were obscure references and riddles and the insinuations of things not directly addressed. The only absolute was the statement that failure was not an option, that the hostages' lives depended on completion of the quest.

Scully sat beside him, her face impassive except for the haunted shadow beneath her blue eyes. She'd made over a dozen trips between the hospital and the university, and between the hospital and Nigel's apartment, collecting the books and notes by half-remembered descriptions and directions. Sometimes she found what she was looking for on the first try, sometimes she had to make a second - or a third - trip. Nigel knew instinctively that she hadn't slept in the past 48 hours.

"It's difficult to know if I'm translating this right. Our _Attila_ is using fifteenth century script to describe twenty-first century realities." Frustration wore heavily on him, aggravated by the omnipresent ache that gnawed at his breadbasket. The bullet tore through his body at an angle, puncturing a lung, glancing off of a rib and ricocheting to perforate his liver and nick his pancreas. He was pushing the limits of his anatomy, but so many lives were at stake that he couldn't live with himself if he didn't try.

"Do the best you can," Scully said softly, her voice hoarse with exhaustion and worry. "You should probably get some rest."

"I will if you do," the little Englishman replied with as much defiance as he could muster. They were all at the breaking point. "But I think I may have figured out the third line. It's not a direct translation, but I think he wrote it phonetically. If so, it is rather a distortion of the pronunciation." He held up the page, pointing to a segment roughly two thirds of the way through the text. "I believe he's saying computer_. Sydney's_ computer. I know Sydney got a couple of weird emails right before all this happened, but I believe she deleted them."

Scully ran a hand over her eyes. "Thank you, Nigel. I'll get some of the techs on it. If she did delete them, they may still be retrievable."

A moment after she stepped out of sight, Nigel pushed himself up, wondering if he had the stamina to do what he had to do. The room swirled around him for a moment, but he found himself upright, standing barefoot on the ubiquitous, nondescript tile that covered the floor of every medical institution.

The narrow locker seemed a mile away, but he retrieved his jacket and reached into the pocket. Somehow he wasn't surprised to find a skeleton key of indeterminate age, its dark contours contrasting sharply with the pallor of his hand. He palmed the object and just managed to get back into bed when Scully returned.

Mulder's first concern was William and Mrs. Scully, then that Fox woman – it still seemed supremely weird to think of someone else with his name, even though in her case it was a surname. Fortunately, Doggett was a man who worked well on intuition and a couple of graphic gestures. The two men moved down the hallway, acting as an advance security detail.

Maggie Scully's concerns aside, both the current and former FBI agent understood just how dangerous a child could be, even unarmed. This army put guns, knives, and other deadly implements into the hands of babes. Some of the killers-in-training couldn't have been more than six or seven, yet they marched with the precision of a seasoned marine. Their youth made them more vulnerable to the machinations of the psycho who headed things up. These children were well acquainted with their weapons, too. 

Mulder prayed it also would leave them better able to accommodate the reprogramming that would inevitably be their lot when the nightmare ended.

Just for a moment, he pictured his son in the ranks of this abominable battalion, and he shuddered. Something told him it was more than a daydream. Too many years of FBI profiling gave him insights into the depths of depravity, and whether he wanted it or not, he knew how Attila operated. The six and seven year olds were soldiers because they'd been snatched from their homes and families as infants or toddlers. There was no telling exactly how many missing children could be here. They were alive, but they were anything but well.

Stealthily, the three adults and one child wound their way through a maze of boxes, crates, and rusted machinery. Miraculously, William never woke, never cried or whimpered.

They reached the door and Mulder's hand was on the latch when blinding lights drowned them in illumination and a rasping voice shouted, "If you leave, Sydney dies."

A loading dock served as his dais. Attila's fingers flexed around a wicked-looking knife, its blade at least a foot long. Sydney's head lolled to one side, and Mulder wondered if she had been drugged. He couldn't get a clear look at her face, but bruises and welts marked what he _could_ see.

"You see, my friends, I know what you are going to do before you do it. I can read your minds before you think. I can see your futures in two ways; one way, if you obey my every word, and another if you don't." Stubby fingers stroked Sydney's hair, and she automatically flinched away. Angered, Attila raised the machete and with a single, powerful stroke, slashed her throat.

Maggie cried out in anguish, William woke with a scream, and Doggett lunged forward, only to meet – hard – with a pipe to the midsection that dropped him instantly. Mulder, knowing that the ordeal was over for Sydney, stood in silence, tears dripping down his cheeks. 

Reyes raked a hand through her hair as she sipped at the nuclear strength coffee. At 1am, she was still poring over the bits and pieces of Nigel's translation. He'd faithfully provided as much information as he could about the text itself, though he became taciturn when asked for any ideas as to whether there might be hidden messages within the message.

"A man wears his life like a robe," she read for the fiftieth time. "It bears witness to who he is and to his destiny. If he will find the key inside that destiny, it will open the door to the things he holds dear." Making a face, she muttered, "Yeah, sure, and your little dog, too." 

Fatigue lined her face. They'd been searching now for 48 hours and were no closer to finding her missing partner, Mulder, Mrs. Scully, or the baby. About Sydney Fox, things were less ambiguous. The body of a dark-haired woman meeting Sydney's description had turned up along the banks of the Hudson, the face too badly mutilated for a positive ID, but identification in the woman's purse said it was her. Her mangled form was with forensics for formality only. They'd sent out for dental records and promised Reyes an official report within the hour.

"The key…" she read aloud again. "Is _chocolate,_" she added, sitting up. "The hell with the diet. I need some good old fashioned junk food."

The courier met her in the hallway. She grabbed the manila envelope and scribbled her name beside the delivery acknowledgment before continuing on to the lounge. Two quarters and a dime dropped into the snack machine, prompting the fall of a candy bar. "Oh yeah," she crooned, collecting the prize. "Come to mama."

Returning to the basement office of the X-Files, she flipped the large envelope onto the desktop and peeled away the wrapper of the candy bar, letting the glorious flavor melt into her consciousness. "God, I needed that," she gushed to the walls. Finally, she figured she'd stalled long enough. It was time to read the confirmation of Sydney's death.

Sliding a nail under the seal, she opened the deep gold enclosure and pulled out the sheath of papers. With a sigh, she spread out the results and resigned herself to read.

The first paragraph brought her bolt upright in her seat. "Holy shit," she whispered, her eyes round. "It's not her."

Bleary-eyed, Scully stared at the digital display as the loud knock reverberated through her apartment. 3:45 am – extraordinary news, good or bad, she decided. Once upon a time, the only person who knocked at that hour was Mulder, thrown into insomnia by some aspect of an X-File. Now, she would dance a jig to know it was her former FBI partner, especially if he carried their son, both safe and sound.

She threw off the heirloom quilt and drew her oversized terry robe around her, padding barefoot to the door. One look through the peephole sent her heart racing. Just outside, Monica Reyes shifted her weight from one foot to the other, fingers drumming a light, nervous rhythm on the wall. Her lips poured out a silent litany, words Scully had herself repeated many a time before. _Come on come on come on come on come on…_

"What happened?" No frivolous words, not until her family was home. "Did you find them?"

Reyes matched her impatience. "Our body's a Jane Doe. It's not Sydney. But she just might tell us where Sydney is."

"And if we find Sydney – we also find William, my mom, Mulder and Doggett! Give me two minutes to get dressed."

In two minutes flat, Scully was dressed and dashing down the hallway, with Reyes hot on her heels.


	8. Sense and Senseless

452 AD

Sydney flexed her arms again, trying to loosen the rough rope that circled her wrists. Her stomach still churned. It was bad enough witnessing a brutal, senseless murder. Knowing that the girl died in her place only exacerbated Sydney's guilt. LeiLani had been selected for her shared Hawaiian heritage with, and physical resemblance to, the female relic hunter. 

Sydney's forehead was braced against the heavenly coolness of a tiled wall. Every inch of her body ached. Attila had no qualms about striking a woman and no sense of fair play. She'd been little more than a living, breathing punching bag to the would-be warrior. She hadn't been questioned, nor was she given any explanation for the beating. And an utter lack of reaction among the young guards told Sydney that this line of cruelty was nothing new to them.

None of this made sense. She had been ostensibly enlisted to find the Sword of Mars, but had yet to do any searching. Another woman had been taken on her account, yet she remained alive. The contradictions were snowballing and she was no closer to understanding any of it.

A girl arrived, a child of no more than ten. Short blond hair spiked out from a babyish face, and curious green eyes stared at the older woman's brown ones. The little girl slid a tray to the floor and silently pressed food between Sydney's lips, alternating with sips of water and some kind of bitter, unsweetened tea. Mismatched clothing hung loosely on the girl's thin frame. A dressy pink lace blouse topped grungy jeans, and a green sock covered one foot, while the other was deep mustard yellow. She shuffled around in worn huarachi sandals that looked to be about one size too large.

Once the meal was completed, the child untied Sydney and walked to a blank corner in the featureless room. The little girl scooted down the wall and sat on the bare wood floor, her expression expectant.

Too surprised for words, Sydney pushed herself up, fighting off a wave of nausea. "Um, does this mean I can go?" she finally managed. Her words sounded tinny and distant to her ears.

The child said nothing, merely pointed at the door.

Syd rose unsteadily and stumbled toward the portal. Her feet suddenly seemed disconnected and awkward, and only determination drove her on. She encountered a few of the kids in the corridors, but she was having a hard time remembering which direction she was going or where she had been. Fortunately, a helpful young man of about twelve offered to guide her. He led her to another door and set her hand on the knob. "Your friend is waiting," he said with a slight lisp.

"Thank you," Sydney said politely. She pushed the door open and broke into a huge smile. "Nigel!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "Long time no see! How's it going?" She stumbled forward and gave him a big kiss, giggling when his jaw went slack in surprise. "I think they drugged me," she confided.

Then, she promptly passed out.

Nigel moaned. "Sydney…" He was worried about his colleague, but he himself had broken into a cold sweat. When she collapsed against him, his body reminded him forcefully of why he'd been in the hospital to begin with, and why he was supposed to _still_ be in the hospital. He raised his eyes to the stout figure that sneered at him from a nearby chair. "All right, Attila, I'm here. I brought the key, and I have my translation manuals. You don't need Sydney any more. Just let her go."

Attila shrugged. "When I get my sword, who knows? I might be generous. But until then, nobody leaves. I was disappointed in the woman. She's not very inventive, is she?"

Hurting or not, the little Englishman choked on that. "_Sydney?_ Look, you've beaten her, then you poured God only knows what drugs into her system. Nobody can function like that." Nigel did his best to cradle his friend's unconscious form against him. He was used to hiding in the background while Sydney kicked butt, and he felt woefully inadequate when the situation was reversed. Hell, at the moment he WAS woefully inadequate. Being shot sort of put a damper on his more heroic aspirations.

"You're the brains of this operation. I've been watching you both. You were only supposed to be grazed, not half killed."

"Thank you," Nigel replied with a contemptful sniff.

The older man leaned forward, eyes glittering with anger. "Don't become annoying, Nigel. I collected you and your boss because together you're the best. But just remember, in the end the most successful relic hunter is the one who survives." Sensing Nigel's capitulation to that logic, Attila leaned back, relaxing. "You are a very pretty boy. It would be a pity to ruin that face. I'd suggest you refrain from angering me. I can keep you alive without keeping you in presentable condition."

Nigel swallowed. "What next?"

"Next, you find my sword. I have the manuscript and you have the key. Our limousine should be here any moment. The three musketeers should play along quite nicely. Ironic how easy it is to manipulate an intelligent man." There was a commotion and moments later, Byers, Langley, and Frohike were pushed through the narrow door. "I believe that's Larry, Moe, and Curley now. I think you'll find them quite helpful, in a bumbling sort of way."

Nigel bit back a snide remark. He'd only met the Lone Gunmen once, but he knew that Mulder & Scully trusted the trio without reservation. He breathed a quick prayer of thanks. He knew of the underground publication and had heard of the things they could do with technology. He tried to ignore their appearance and remind himself that they were the good guys.

He buried the thought that if this was the cavalry, they were in big trouble.

"Boys, can you hear me?"

Scully's voice caressed Frohike's ear. The vertically challenged computer expert performed a subtle adjustment to the tiny radio and replied with a fairly neutral, "Um-hmm."

The three Gunmen knew their parts by rote. They bumbled into a highly dangerous situation, played the complete geek symphony, and used their brains to escape the evil tyrant.

At least, that's how it worked on paper.

Frohike took in the fact that the British kid wasn't looking so hot, the babe in his arms was out like a light, and there was no sign of Mulder, Doggett, Mrs. Scully, or the baby. "Hoo boy, this is gonna be an all-nighter," the smallest gunman grumbled to himself. His instinct was to jump to Plan B. Of course, that was going to be difficult, since there _wasn't_ a Plan B.

"Well, well, you must be the great Attila the Hun. Nice to meet you," Frohike quipped, forcing a smile. "Very impressive operation. Looks like you're still a military genius." He stuck out his hand, pulling it back just in time to escape the blade that aimed to sever it from his wrist. "You're right. Skip the pleasantries," the diminutive man muttered under his breath.

Attila stood in front of the grizzled little man and grunted. "You're one of the famous Lone Gunmen? You look more like a refugee from the Yellow Brick Slums."

Other than a twitch at his eyebrow, Frohike didn't react to the insult. He met Attila's dark glare with an indifferent expression.

The killer turned his attention to Byers and Langly, who stood back-to-back. "I give up. Which of you is the Scarecrow and which is the Tin Man?" Jerking his head toward Nigel, he smirked, "I know who's the Cowardly Lion."

Langly ignored their captor's taunts, focusing instead on the injured scholar. "You're Bailey, right? You okay?"

"I've been better," Nigel admitted shakily. "I think I broke some stitches." His voice was faint.

Byers asked pointedly, "Can we please help the kid and the woman?"

Attila laughed. "Oh, you _will_ help them, I assure you. It's unfortunate that our little lion is in such poor shape. He's become nearly superfluous except as a means of controlling Sydney Fox. Of course, if he dies, I have no one to translate my texts, and that would be most unfortunate. I would be _very_ disappointed if I didn't reclaim my sword. So I suggest you make sure he doesn't die. At least, not until after I have what I want."

A very satisfied Attila left the room, and a series of locks clicked from the outside or the door, blocking their only visible exit.

The instant Attila was out of sight, Nigel's resolve failed and all three of the Gunmen dove to catch the little Englishman before both he and Sydney slid to the floor.

Frohike whispered urgently into the microphone hidden in his collar, "Paging Dr. Scully, we've got a big problem here."

"Yeah, I got you. We're on our way." The slim redhead raised eyes to take in their cavernous surroundings. The tin roof looked about a thousand feet overhead, with a web of scaffolding and walkways crisscrossing the space.

Scully swallowed the overwhelming urge to scream. She was saving up her fears and frustration and anger for one unfortunate soul. God help this _Attila_ when she got her hands on him.

At least they now knew where their suspect was, if not all of his hostages. A small army of federal agents surrounded the compound, and she and Reyes and two dozen other agents were working their way through the maze of crates and boxes inside the dilapidated central warehouse. There was no way anyone could get out without being seen. Skinner was among those inside. Somewhere along the way, this had become a personal battle for him, too.

Thunder crackled outside and the already insufficient lighting flickered. _Great,_ thought Scully glumly_. Just what we need. _As the first large raindrops resounded on the tin of the roof, she discovered that Attila apparently shared a lock fetish with the Lone Gunmen. It took a couple of minutes to get through them all.

When she did, she walked into an empty room.

As it turned out, each and every door had been given similar treatment. And every single room was empty, with one notable exception. In the uppermost room, they found the identical shards of the hidden radio transmitters that the Gunmen had been wearing.

Moans of disappointment rippled through the FBI teams, and most started to walk away, but Scully's voice was sharp. "Stop right there. They're still here. We just haven't found them yet."

Reyes murmured, "We've checked everywhere, Scully. They're not here."

The redhead snapped coldly, "You're wrong, Agent Reyes. They _are _here, all of them. I can feel them." Scully's large blue eyes scanned the rafters and the walls, taking in the open doors that led to nowhere. "There was nowhere to escape, anyway. There are too many people to move that quickly. We know they're here, and I don't intend to spend another night without my family." Raising her voice, she shouted, "I know you're here, Attila! I know you can hear me! I'm not going to walk away this time. Be afraid, because if anything happens to the people I love, I'll send you straight to hell myself, you bastard!"

Raucous laughter echoed from everywhere. "My, my! Here I was admiring Sydney Fox, when it was the little red hen with the spit and venom! You can't kill me. No weapon on earth can kill me. I know what you're thinking, my dear, and it won't work. I can anticipate your every move, because I can read your mind."


	9. Simple Matters

452 AD

Opening an eye, Sydney tried to orient on the dim lighting and the awful odors that assailed her. Slowly, fighting a tidal wave of nausea, she managed to sit up and really look around. What she saw did nothing to encourage her. "Lovely place you've got here, Tilly," she muttered. "What a wonderful air freshener." Her knees threatened to abandon her when she stood. She ignored the warning and braced a hand against the cement wall in a valiant effort to remain upright.

It took a while for her mind to sort out pertinent information and draw some sort of conclusion. She was underground in a huge sewer line, presumably beneath the warehouse. And she wasn't alone. There were two other men down here with her; that Mulder guy and the FBI agent. What was his name? Dogs?? _Doggett,_ that was it.

Mulder was scrunched against a wall, looking none too happy, while Doggett stood next to him, gulping air. Both of them had seen better days.

Running a hand through the tangles in her hair, she realized she probably wasn't going to win any beauty pageants either. She knew she didn't want to identify the muck that clung to her skin and clothing. "What now?" she asked, cursing herself at the wobble in her voice.

Mulder glanced up at her, his hazel eyes dead. "We were hoping you could tell us."

"Now you find my damned sword!"

Sydney jumped at the intimacy of the sound. Still woozy from the drug cocktail, she hadn't even realized that she was wearing some sort of radio transmitter, its tiny speaker tucked over her ear.

The imperious orders continued rapid-fire, the voice tinny through the undersized headset. "You have a map in the pocket of your blouse. Open it up and try to follow the directions. Your friend's life, and the life of the woman and the baby, depend on it."

"Nigel!" she exclaimed, a dim memory rising to consciousness. "He needs to be in the hospital! Let him go or I won't help you." She made no effort to hide her desperation. "Look, I already said I'd help you. Just let everyone else go." It sounded pathetic to her ears, but it was all she had. "For God's sake, what do you need with a baby? Let them go!"

"You'll do exactly what I say or they'll all die. Besides, I rather like your little Nigel. He's really quite pretty, in a sort of puppy dog way. I like puppies, you know. They're delicious baked with an apple glaze." The offhand reference to cannibalism carried just enough of a sneer to send a shiver of horror up the woman's spine. There was something convincing about the statement, something that suggested it was more than a threat.

Mulder unfolded his lanky frame and reached for the page. "If you're not hunting for this thing, I am," he announced flatly. "I don't even know if my son is alive any more, but I can't take a chance."

"Here. This is it." Other than the frat party assaulting her stomach, Sydney had more or less shaken off the effects of whatever drug their abductor fed her. She tried to focus on finding the relic, repeating to herself that this was business as usual, nothing more. She couldn't afford to think about the real ramifications if she failed. It might already be too late for the infant, for the grandmother, and for Nigel.

She instantly slammed the door shut on that thought, unable to cope with the knife of worry it sent through her heart.

She stood on tiptoe to peer into the secondary cement line. "It's got to be the one."

Mulder trained his small halogen flashlight on the dirty page. "Any sign of the tributary branch?" he asked. 

"No. _Yes._ Yes, it's there, off to the right. This _is_ it. Somebody give me a boost." She wished again she'd been granted a simple tool kit; a rope, a hammer, anything she'd normally bring along to do her job. Bereft of the basics, separated from her assistant and best friend, she was reduced to giving orders for the obvious.

With a shrug, Mulder stuck the paper into his pocket and interlaced his fingers, forming a stirrup to lift her to the secondary line. "You okay?" he asked once she got inside.

"Nope, but I'm too pissed to stop now." She crawled through the sludge, forcing back the bile that rose in her throat. She reached the junction, but it was too dark to see more than a foot or two in. "I need your flashlight."

Something smacked against her butt and, after a couple of moves worthy of a contortionist, she collected the flashlight. "Got it!" she called. "Heading down the branch."

"Hey, if you find the sword, won't it be solid rust?" Mulder yelled back, and it struck her that he was living the same worries and uncertainties that plagued her. 

"It might be. Depends on whether it's been left in the open or if it's sealed in something waterproof, and how long it's been down here. Hey, Mulder, can I ask you something? It's kind of personal, so you don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"You can ask. If I don't answer, don't take it personally." There was a hint of macabre humor in his voice.

She spied a dark mound a few feet ahead, its outlines too indistinct for her to tell if it was what she was looking for or not. "Why do you and Scully call each other by your last names?"

Silence was his reply, and for a moment she figured she wouldn't get an answer.

"We worked together first. She was sent to spy on me, to undermine my work." There was a quiet soft chuckle. "She wasn't exactly what my enemies were expecting. Hell, she wasn't what _I _was expecting!"

"So you guys were friends first?" Before he could answer, she grasped the tattered leather case, "I got it!"

Navigating backward through the sewer line was considerably more complicated than entering. Mulder picked up where they left off. "We were about as different as they come, you know? I mean, we both were intelligent adults, and we spoke the same language and shared the job, the same passions. Pretty much everything else was different. It took us seven years to realize that the differences weren't important. Either that, or spending all that time together we grew more alike in self defense."

__

This is waaaay too easy.

Sydney's mind raced through the possibilities. She'd just reached in and retrieved the sword, if in fact the gooey remnants of leather sheathed the rapier. "Hey, Mulder, you believe in fate? You think there are some people we're meant to meet in our lives? I mean, if there's only one person out there for you, would God let you just miss them, or do you think he sets up road signs so you can't miss them?" She continued to crawl backwards through the sewer line. It simply wasn't possible to turn around in the damp, dark confines. "Talk to me, I think I took a wrong turn!"

"I don't see you!" he called back. His voice was muffled, and Sydney realized she had to be moving away. There had only been one turn. How could she have gotten confused in such a simple grid? Her hands flailed out into the inky darkness ahead of her. 

Gooseflesh rose on her arms. 

The floor of the pipe fell away into nothingness. She nearly tumbled into the hole unawares. Tucking the grimy leather bundle into her shirt for safekeeping, she fumbled with the miniature flashlight. Before she could send its tiny beam through the blackness, it slipped from her slime-covered fingers, clattering against the wall for only a second. Sydney strained to hear it strike the floor. She shivered. There was no reassuring sound of final landing. It was as though she was poised on the cusp of absolute abyss.

She licked sweat from her lips. "Mulder? You still there?" 

It seemed an eternity before his words drifted back to her. "Yeah, I'm here."

Drawing a deep, trembling breath, she confessed, "I have no idea how I got here, but I'm lost. I don't suppose you've got another flashlight?"

Seconds later, a second brilliant beam sliced through the air.

And a third.

And fourth, and fifth, sixth, seventh…

Tiny mirrors angled from every crevasse, weaving a kaleidoscope pattern that shifted with each move of the light. 

Mulder seemed to read her mind. "Oh shit," he remarked. "You know what you were asking about fate?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm hoping it's true. And I'm hoping it's my fate to choke the life out of Attila the Hun."

Margaret Scully tipped the cup up to the young man's lips. Even with her encouragement, he barely sipped at the tepid liquid.

Their new jail room was growing crowded. Across the bare floor, the trio of computer geeks was scrunched against the wall. All three pair of hands were manacled. There would be no more untied rope, no more futile attempts at walking out unmolested. 

And the young British man was failing before her eyes, no matter how much she willed him to live.

"Nigel, can you hear me?" she asked. She was growing increasingly angry at their captors. Children or not, they knew that this man was injured and should be in a hospital. They were little automatons, operating with the cold efficiency of machines. A chill ran through her as she realized that these little soldiers would kill without a second thought.

She'd done all she could to make her new roommates comfortable. Besides her and the baby, only the young Englishman remained unbound. Not that the boy – she resolutely refused to think of him as more than that, though he was probably in his twenties – was in any condition to threaten anyone. The monster who called himself Attila had been here sporadically, requiring the injured man to translate antique gibberish from fragments of parchment and pottery and stone. Nigel meekly complied with the demands despite his body's downward spiral.

Her mind seethed with anger at their captor, the madman behind the abduction and imprisonment. Left physically unable to fight her captor, she allowed her mind to dredge up a list of extremely unladylike words aimed at the monster. Then, in a moment of pure, unadulterated hate, she imagined him in absolute agony.


	10. Bottom of the Eighth, No Outs

452 AD

Scully held her pistol at ready while she turned a 360º circle in the middle of the dusty floor. "Where are you, you coward?" she spat. "Where's my family?"

"Ah, yes. Your family. You understand I can't tell you yet where they are, it would spoil the surprise. I have the party all planned out, you know."

The acoustics of the warehouse bounced the sound from box to box, ceiling to floor, and wall to wall. Once in a while, a thin sliver of light shone up from some agent who disobeyed the order to kill his or her flashlight. Scully would deal with them later. Something told her it made no difference to their enemy. "I'm not playing your game, Attila. If you can read my mind, you already know what I'll do to you if anything happens to my baby, to my mother, or to my – " She bit off the word, unwilling to reveal more to either the enemy or her colleagues at the FBI.

"They already know he's your lover, whether you embrace the word or not." The mockery in Attila's words cut into her heart. "Oh, but I must admit, you have quite the imagination." 

Suddenly the killer gasped, and Scully's heart sped up with a glimmer of an idea. "No weapon can kill you, did you say? What can kill you, oh mighty warrior?" Every syllable was as hard and unyielding as granite. The booming silence spread through her limbs and for the first time since the nightmare began, she smiled. "I know your secret, don't I, Attila? I know how to stop you."

"You aren't capable of killing me," the disembodied voice replied.

But this time, everyone could hear the doubt.

Crawling backward in the pitch blackness, Sydney tamped down waves of claustrophobia. She never dealt with that particular problem before. Then again, she'd never been plunked into an unlit, sludge-filled maze before and been told that countless lives depended on her finding a way through.

Hunting for antiquities might involved hidden traps, and mazes weren't unheard-of. This was something else altogether. She just prayed there were no spring-loaded weapons, no concealed poisons, and no more abrupt drop-offs in the line. Who would have thought her most challenging and most frightening relic hunt would take place in the bowels of a gigantic metropolis?

Once in a while, she still caught a glimpse of illumination. Mulder kept his flashligh on. While she couldn't pinpoint its origin, the minimal light offered her a desperate grip on her faltering sanity.

Her body ached with every movement, but she couldn't let herself stop. "Talk to me, Mulder," she repeated for the thousandth time.

He obliged, "What do you want me to tell you? You want to know about the aliens?"

She chuckled. "Tell me about the aliens, sure." Hell, at this point he could have told her HE was an alien and she'd have welcomed it. 

"They took Scully."

Sydney paused. Whatever else the man was saying, there was agony buried in the memory he recounted. "Go on," she urged. Her fingers encountered the carapace of another creature that skittered away and she sucked in her breath, gagging at the encounter.

"You okay?" Mulder's voice floated up to her.

"Yeah," she replied faintly. "Go on. What happened with Scully?"

A moment later, Doggett's voice drifted through her consciousness. "I read the case files. Agent Scully was abducted by a man named Duane Barry. We don't know exactly where she ended up, but she was subjected to some very invasive procedures. She was nearly dead when she finally turned up, a month after she was first taken. It's not a pretty history. I don't think you really want to know all the gory details."

"I need to hear you talking to me. I need –" She paused to collect her wits. "I need to know you're there, that I'm not the only person living in this god-forsaken hellhole. " _Please._ "Tell me something good. There has to be something good about the X-Files, something funny. I know you guys work for the FBI. I know you deal with murder and mayhem. But isn't there anything bizarre, a case where your suspect turned out not to be the killer or something?"

There was another pause and Mulder chimed in, "Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt to tell you about Eddie Van Blundht. It's public record, after all, and there's no threat to national security. I guess you could say he was just small potatoes."

"Watch the hands, man, watch where you're putting your hands!"

Margaret raised an eyebrow. The three computer nerds were wriggling in place, turning back-to-back as though they actually expected to do something about their predicament.

"Be still, Langly, or I'll leave the cuffs on."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, you pervert."

Byers, ever the voice of reason, interrupted, "Just get these things off, guys. Frohike, you sure you can unlock them?"

"Yup. I swiped a hairpin from Goldilocks while we were out on patrol the other night. He was too busy enjoying my kiss to even notice."

"Frohike, you are a dead man. Attila can't have you until I'm done killing you."

"Be still, for cryin' out loud. And shut up. I don't want Mrs. Scully to get jealous."

Margaret smothered a grin, knowing now that the exchange was being carried on strictly for her sake. There was a shared gleam of humor in all three of the men's eyes as they fumbled toward shaky freedom. Dana's faith in these odd little nerds bordered on obsession at times. For the first time, Margaret began to suspect the faith might not be altogether misplaced. "What can I do to help?" she interjected.

"Just keep watch over the baby and Wonderboy and we'll do the rest," Byers assured her. "Hey, Bailey, any ideas about where we should start looking for your boss and Mulder and Doggett?"

"I think so. We got moved through the basement and the sewers. From what I can gather, the sword is hidden down there somewhere. I might be able to reconstruct a map if I had paper and pencil."

Langly reached up, displaying the hand that now was freed. Clutched in his slender fingers was a crumpled piece of notebook paper. "I got my half."

A moment later, Byers raised his own triumphant instrument. "No pencil. Will a pen do?"

Frohike's stubby fingers rose with their own contribution. "I've got the painkiller." He fanned three miniature bottles of booze for better view. 

__

I know how to get to you now. Scully's mind replayed all she knew about the killer, including the relatively new practice of taking hostages. Something fundamental had changed.

Her heart ached. Mulder would have thrown out a wild theory, one so bizarre she'd probably snigger behind her hand. He'd then smoothly describe the impossible in the most logical, scientific terms., as though style somehow validated the content. Her lips curved into a sad smile. _Maybe it did. Wasn't he right about ninety-eight percent of the time?_

She sucked in a breath and blew it out in a whistle. William was alive. So was Mulder, and her mother, and everyone else. And suddenly, she the truth glared at her like a neon sign.

Attila was afraid.

She had the key, but still had to figure out which door it fit. She knew that he was vulnerable to thoughts, but not just any thoughts. He wasn't impacted by mere anger. Tears didn't affect him. She wished him dead and he was still very much alive.

What made the difference? Which ideas reached out and touched him when nothing else could?

Mulder eyed the half-silhouette that hunched against the damp, filthy wall. John Doggett wasn't the sort of man to sit back while the world revolved around him. That meant Doggett's injuries were probably bad.

Probably really bad.

Professor Fox didn't look all that great, either. Even in the half-light of their current location, her normally bronze skin was pasty except where discolored by bruises. She was moving slowly, trying unsuccessfully to hide the ache that accompanied every shift of muscle and sinew. At the moment, of course, that muscle and sinew were lost somewhere in a labyrinth of waste and filth, and he couldn't see her.

"Sydney, you still with us?" Mulder's voice echoed through the cement lines. He was not used to standing by helplessly while someone else did the work. Something told him that if Sydney were an FBI agent, she might have ended up in the X-Files, herself. He squelched that thought instantly, as it raised a whole new list of ideas, distracting ideas. "You okay?"

Her voice drifted back. "Well, other than an intense need for air freshener and a can of Raid, I'm just peachy. I think I'm on the right track, too. You sound closer."

"If we do get the sword for our favorite historical figure, what do you think he intends to do with it?" Mulder aimed his flashlight into the pipe where she'd disappeared two hours earlier. "Line check," he added casually. "Anything?"

Far down the pipe, he saw movement. A triumphant cry confirmed what he saw. 

"I'm back! Keep that light on, I'm sliding in home!" A few seconds later, Sydney crawled from the narrow line. "And I don't know what Attila has in mind, but you can bet we won't like it."


	11. The Setup

452 AD

Margaret clung to her grandson, thankful that the child was being quiet. She now knew what she was up against. Letting instinct guide her, her mind played out one scenario after another against her enemy. When her family was at stake, she abandoned civility. She imagined Attila crouched against a wall while his intestines were eaten away by disease. She dredged up every memory of helping Dana study for medical exams, and aimed that memory at the unseen terror, fighting in the only way she knew.

Thank God, at least the iconoclastic trio of computer geeks didn't call her crazy. At least, not to her face. And the young Englishman was focusing exclusively on maintaining himself above the wall of pain. His colorless lips whispered directions from a crude map, while Langly and Byers formed a human chair for him. They moved as quickly as their circumstances allowed, doubling back to the ancient elevator which could carry them back to ground level.

Acrid fumes rose from the sludge running through the lines, but their more immediate concern was the thunder that rumbled overhead, and the fact that the tainted water was rising. If the storm resulted in heavy rainfall, they would drown in this sub-basement to the city. 

Voices echoed down the line, and the entourage froze. Had Attila discovered their escape and sent his young soldiers to stop them?

"That's Mulder!" observed Frohike, his shoulders slumping in relief.

"And that's Sydney!" The Bailey boy's face broke into a smile. "I'd know her voice anywhere!"

Heartened by the recognition, they redoubled their pace. "Mulder!" Byers called. "We're coming your way. We've got the baby and Mrs. Scully, and the Bailey kid. Any idea how to get them out of here?"

"That you, Byers? We're working on it!" Mulder called back.

"Nigel? How are you doing?" 

Sydney's concern washed over the young man and he straightened. "I'm fine," he lied with a valiant flourish..

By honing in on the voices, they were able to rendezvous within moments. Sydney brandished a long piece of rust – it was too far gone to rightly be called a sword any more – and Mulder's arm supported Agent Doggett. Doggett, for his part, looked little better than Bailey.

"All present and accounted for," quipped Langly. "Any idea where to go from here?"

Nigel nodded, swallowing. "I think so. The elevator is that way." He waved his arm to the next intersecting pipe. "I'm not sure how far."

"Not very," Sydney confirmed. "Of course, they'll be waiting for us."

Margaret's heart sunk. "They're children."

"They're Stepford children," Frohike added grimly.

"We may not have a choice," Mulder pointed out. "But if there's any way, we don't hurt these kids. They've already been victimized by a monster."

Scully was pissed, and Reyes wasn't far behind. At this point, following her new female partner's directive wasn't a problem. Scully simply told her to direct very specific and very vicious thoughts at their enemy. Reyes replied evenly, "No problem."

They moved silently through the warehouse, guns drawn. Reyes bit her lip. Could she fire on a child if required? And could the FBI _justify_ killing a child, if it came to that? The Bureau had taken hell for its bungling of Waco. What would the press do if it came out that the agency took aim at children? If these children were themselves violent, it was unquestionably due to brainwashing.

This whole scenario was every peace officer's worst nightmare.

The warehouse was eerily quiet now, save the occasional soft rumble of thunder and the drum of light rain on the tin roof. An FBI SWAT team flowed silently through space, a swarm of black jackets and caps emblazoned with white letters that announced their affiliation. Tears sprang unbidden to Reyes's eyes. Never mind the FBI… Could she ever face herself in the mirror again if she knowingly hurt a child?

The thought pushed her forward and renewed her inaudible mental assault on their enemy. Now she imagined him covered in pustules that oozed pain. Whether or not thinking had any impact on Attila, it helped keep her focused on the nature of their quest. This was war, like it or not. Attila had achieved his goal, if his goal was to remind everyone how precious and fragile life was, and how important to defend it.

When they encountered the first of the tiny warriors, they were surprised. Despite the fact that the little girl carried an armory, she offered no resistance when officers reached for the semi-automatic she carried. One of the younger men knelt beside her and gently wiped tears from her mocha cheeks, whispering, "It's gonna be all right, honey." She yielded the rest of her equipment without fanfare, and her self-appointed savior carried her to safety.

The second child behaved comparably, as did the third and the fourth. Even the older kids were subdued, confusion shadowing their eyes.

Scully motioned to Reyes and the two women darted through a half-hidden doorway, stepping boldly into the darkness. Reyes clicked on her large halogen flashlight. There was a creak and a loud groan to one side of the room as the ancient elevator awakened.

Scully raised her Sig Hauer, her body poised to release a deadly barrage at whoever stepped out of the maw of the sub-basement. Reyes doused the light, figuring they didn't need to paint a target for Attila's practice.

Both women held their respective breath while the antique machinery ascended. They wouldn't have a choice. With the light, they'd be sitting ducks. Without it, they'd be forced to fire blindly into the elevator.

The old elevator squealed in protest, jerking upward inch by inch. Inside the concrete-lined shaft, the only constant was perfect darkness. 

Doggett's breathing was increasingly labored, and Mulder finally made the connection. He smelled something on the FBI agent, something sickly and familiar and scary as hell. 

It was blood. At the very least, Doggett had a punctured lung.

No matter how you sliced it, he was going to die unless they got help fast. And the Bailey kid wasn't far behind. The younger man was hunched on the floor, soundless. Unless Mulder missed his guess, that wasn't a normal state for the little Englishman.

Sydney slowly pulled the sword from its fragile makeshift scabbard. Mulder didn't have to see her with his eyes; somehow he _knew_ it was what she was doing. They couldn't stop the groan of machinery, but for some reason, they felt compelled to remain silent, as though speaking might somehow jinx them. The FBI agent turned reporter pictured the relic hunter raising the weapon, and in his mind's eye, the rust fell away from the sword in sheets, leaving a sleek, slender silver rapier of flawless design. He thought he might even have heard the stuff sloughing away, but perhaps it was only his imagination.

Without quite knowing why, they all dropped to their knees. Sydney was nearest the open door, poised to strike, the sword pointing toward the unseen enemy.

Prayer never came easy to Dana Scully. Nonetheless, soundless, involuntary words tumbled from her lips. Her finger caressed the trigger of her weapon and her heart pounded a staccato beat in her ears. _Hail Mary, Mother of God…_

The antique elevator ground to a halt, and the ensuing silence was suffocating.

__

Holy Mother guide me…

Reyes's arm rose and there was sudden movement as a low figure shot toward them from the unseen maw of the machine. Scully pulled the trigger…

And nothing happened.

She heard the other woman's weapon likewise misfire, and in the same instant, a soft, familiar sound echoed through the empty space.

"Mama?"

The silence was ended instantly. Scully cried out, "William!" and everyone began talking at once.

Mulder's voice was thick with emotion. "Scully?"

"Dana, honey, it's Mom!"

Reyes asked "Doggett, you there?" Her flashlight flared to life. Its mate woke from inside the dilapidated lift, giving a clear view of everyone both in and outside of the antiquated machinery.

Sydney froze in mid-lunge, not two feet away. When she realized whom she nearly attacked, she rose stiffly, allowing a long ebony rapier to drop parallel to her thigh. "Something stopped me," the professor explained. In her eyes, relief warred with confusion. "I couldn't carry through."

"We've got injured people here," Margaret reminded. "And we're still in that monster's territory."

Thunder crackled overhead, and water dripped to splatter on the cement underfoot. Scully grumbled, "Anybody besides me feel like we're in a bad Frankenstein movie?" She strode over to the door and yanked it open. "We've got both a civilian and an agent down in here, somebody get a paramedic!"

There was no answer from the SWAT team – or anyone else. Inside the elevator room, unease flitted over all six adults' faces. Scully's only concession to her fears was to give her son a quick hug and kiss and to whisper that he had to stay with his grandmother for a little longer. She couldn't tell her mother to take William and stay someplace safe. Both the baby and Margaret Scully were still in jeopardy, as were the injured men and Sydney Fox. They wouldn't truly be safe until Attila was permanently stopped.

Scully raised her voice, allowing defiance and derision to saturate each word. "I know you're watching, Attila. You're not a warrior, you're a coward and a bully! You don't have the balls to face me alone!" If their enemy fed off of their fear, she wasn't providing him any sustenance now. She was too pissed. Her mind poured out malevolent wishes against the unseen enemy. Medical training allowed her to imagine specific damage to organs and tissues. It was a dance of guilt and fear, anger and anguish, intellect and gut instinct, all rolled into a single, compact stream of thought aimed at the being who took on the name of an ancient evil.

A figure stepped through the wall. The brick and mortar shattered outward as though struck with a human-sized sledgehammer, filling the room with a storm of dust and grit and rubble. Small pieces of cement shrapnel bit into Scully's skin, a quick, harsh reminder that this was no movie. The self-proclaimed warrior emerged from the swirl of dust. Attila's eyes glittered with an evil that sent a collective shiver through everyone else in the room.

Then the female FBI agent gasped. And for just a moment, compassion replaced cold fury.

Attila's body was nearly unrecognizable. Tumors and pustules rose from exposed flesh, and every joint in his hand was swollen and bent in arthritic distortion. He moved slowly, deliberately, allowing her to see his agony. "This is what you've done to me…" he hissed. "And you'll pay. You can't kill me. All you can do is hurt me. And injuring a tiger only enrages it, making it more dangerous."

"You're lying."

"Am I?" the killer sneered. "Try me. Shoot me with your little firecracker. It will only make me more deadly. It will make me stronger."

Killer or not, Attila was unarmed. His outstretched hands were empty. Firing on him would cost her job and possibly get her jail time.

Scully trained her weapon on the walking, talking antiquity and muttered, "Worth every bit of it."


	12. Coda

452 AD

The sound of a gunshot echoed through the crates and boxes, adding internal thunder to the rumble of the storm outside. Attila was knocked back a couple of steps by the impact, but not stopped. He advanced toward the knot of friends, his expression venomous. "That was stupid, little girl. You have no idea what you're doing."

Scully felt herself go pale as she pumped one round after another into the warrior and he didn't even slow down. He reached for her throat and she struck at him with the useless weapon. The next thing she knew, she was dangling in midair, her windpipe crushed in Attila's iron grip.

Mulder lunged forward and Reyes emptied her own service revolver, but it was a futile effort. Mulder was slammed against the wall, and the killer merely laughed at Reyes. His only reaction was an _oomph_ that seemingly arrived from nowhere. His eyes glittered with wrath and he spat at Margaret Scully, "You'll pay for that, woman. Weren't you listening? You can't kill me!"

"But I'll bet _I can_!" Sydney's shout came from behind the ancient warrior. "I have your damned sword. If you want it, put her down!" She rammed the blade through Attila's side and he roared out in pain. 

Now enraged, the warrior flung Scully against the wall, where she slipped down like a rag doll and landed, unmoving, on the cold cement floor. He leapt at Sydney, screeching, "Give me that sword!"

"Come and get it!" she snarled back, deftly avoiding his increasingly clumsy movements. "They might not be able to kill you with their thoughts, but they can slow you down. And you don't want this sword because it's symbolic. You want it because it's the only thing that can kill you!"

The flashlights flickered and died with another loud clap of thunder and they heard the sharp sizzle of frying wires. The useless instruments clattered to the floor as they grew red hot, melting and then cooling into invisible sludge on the cement. 

It didn't matter. The sword gave off its own eerie illumination, something between the blue glow of a black light and the murky rose of infrared technology. Attila's misshapen features were even more hideous in the half-light. Beyond the fighters, FBI agents and civilians were forced to wait and watch as the lurid confrontation continued.

"You already ran me through with the sword and I'm still alive. You can't kill an immortal!" His words echoed around them. The mortals felt their skin crawl with revulsion. Slowly the two warriors circled one another, each appraising the opponent.

"You're lying," Nigel gasped from the floor of the elevator. "Sydney, remember the legend of the Highlanders?"

Laughter rattled through the rafters.

__

Sydney's laughter. "Nigel, I think you're right. All right, Attila. You're a tiger, are you? Here, kitty, kitty!"

The warrior leapt toward her again, evading her stroke with the rapier and knocking her off of her feet. She rolled and jumped up again, but the killer caught her wrist and twisted. She cried out as the blade fell to the cement.

Reyes grabbed the weapon and stepped back, raising it in readiness. "You don't get off that easily, buddy," she warned. "I'm not a martial arts expert, but I'll bet I can give you some serious grief."

Attila let go of Sydney, striking out at Reyes. The female FBI agent was one of the few uninjured and she easily avoided the clumsy effort. She swung the dark foil and caught Attila's own wrist, neatly severing the hand. In her horror, she froze.

That was a mistake. 

The separated appendage leapt, seemingly of its own accord, back into place. Flame surrounded the injury and within seconds it was fully restored. Attila backhanded her, knocking her off balance. His fingers closed around the sword and yanked it from her. He raised it over his head with a triumphant roar. "I'm unstoppable now!" he crowed.

He didn't notice the blur of motion until it was too late. Scully literally ran up and grappled the sword from his fingers. Before he had the chance to react, she swung the dark blade and connected it squarely with his neck. The supernatural sword sliced through muscle, bone, and sinew like it was soft butter, and his head was instantly separated.

But rather than the grisly remnants of a decapitation, the warrior's body dissolved in a whirlwind of lights that swept around the room, lifting hair on end and throwing the world into slow motion.

The spectacle lasted for mere seconds. When it was over, the battle's winner slumped to the floor while her audience rushed to her side.

An hour later

The sirens faded as a half dozen dazed figures limped from the mist. The faint outline of the warehouse rose behind them, a black battlement against lighter charcoal skies. Now and then, lightning still glittered in the distance, impotent reminder of a storm now departed.

William was now wide awake and gurgling in his mother's arms. Scully hugged him to her, her frayed nerves slowly healing with the return of her son. Mulder walked a few steps behind, supporting a pallid Doggett, and Sydney and Reyes formed a human chair for Nigel, whose condition was still in doubt.

"The legends couldn't all be true," Sydney remarked, raising her face to the fresh air. "According to the Highlander legend, only an immortal could kill another immortal."

Scully wordlessly fingered the crumpled note that she'd found in the pocket of her jacket, an unsigned missive that appeared mysteriously after Attila's demise.

The unidentified writer left a simple and cryptic message of five words.

__

"There can be only one."

THE END

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Author's note: Thank you for the wonderful reviews! Writers always appreciate feedback. It's why we write. And as to why I chose to write a crossover incorporating X-Files with Relic Hunter – I am a fan of both, and it simply seemed like a natural mix. I have completed several standalone fan fictions for each of the two shows and thought it would be interesting to combine my passions in one story.

I am currently writing another Relic Hunter standalone, and am participating in a round robin that is going quite well. I also have a web site for both the X-Files and Relic Hunter fanfics. You can pull the RH link by clicking on my SN, TwisterJester, from the main list of RH fics here.


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